Sleep refused to come.
I lay on my side, staring at the dark ceiling, listening to the faint sounds of the house settling into the night. Every creak, every distant footstep reminded me that I wasn't alone.
Zayn was somewhere in this house.
That thought alone was enough to keep my heart awake.
I turned, pulling the blanket tighter around myself. My mind replayed the moment in the hallway—his hand lifting, stopping, retreating. The line he refused to cross. The distance he insisted on keeping, even as it hurt us both.
A soft knock broke the silence.
I sat up instantly.
The door opened just enough for him to step inside. He didn't look at me at first, his expression tired, shadows dark under his eyes.
"You're still awake," he said quietly.
"So are you."
He nodded once. "I couldn't sleep."
Neither of us moved.
The quiet between us felt heavier than words.
"I didn't mean to hurt you," he said finally.
My breath caught. "Then why does it feel like you did?"
He exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair. "Because keeping distance sometimes hurts more than closeness."
I looked at him, really looked at him—and saw something I hadn't before.
Fear.
"You're afraid," I whispered.
His jaw tightened, but he didn't deny it.
"I don't do emotions," he said. "They complicate things."
"And what if they're already here?" I asked.
He stepped closer, stopping just a step away from the bed. Close enough to touch. Close enough to feel.
"Then someone loses control," he said softly.
The silence stretched again.
I reached out without thinking, my fingers brushing his wrist.
He froze.
For a heartbeat, neither of us breathed.
Then, slowly, he pulled his hand back.
"Get some rest, Ayla," he said, voice strained. "Tomorrow will be difficult."
He turned and left.
I lay back down, my heart pounding.
That night, I understood something clearly.
Silence didn't mean absence of feelings.
Sometimes,
it was the loudest confession of all.